


(Tell Me) Who I Am

by kinky_kneazle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: #coulsonlives, Amnesia, BDSM, Edgeplay, F/M, Gift Fic, M/M, Multi, OT3, Polyfidelity, arrowplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinky_kneazle/pseuds/kinky_kneazle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the Battle of New York Clint Barton is lost, Natasha Romanova is absent, and Phil Coulson's dreams leave him longing for things he'd never imagined a wife, two kids and twenty years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Tell Me) Who I Am

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefrogg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/gifts).



> The title comes from a song that a friend of mine used to sing, but he could never remember the name or original songwriter so I can't credit it. Just know that it isn't mine. Many thanks to curiouslyfic for the handholding and beta duties.

When Phil Coulson dies, Clint is lost.

It happens as suddenly as Loki. Many a debrief he'd had with Phil at a table, a giant meal in front of them as they talked about what went right and what went wrong and how they were going to do better next time. He'd missed Phil's voice in his ear during the battle, figured he was busy overseeing on the helicarrier, but Clint couldn't debrief without Phil. So he asks why Coulson isn't with them, eating shawarma and sharing tales.

Natasha freezes, suddenly all carefully controlled tension.

Stark looks away, eyes angry, and Banner looks at his hands in his lap, picking at a thread of the tattered shirt they'd found him.

It is Steve Rogers who looks in his eyes, his voice sincere and calm and clearly experienced at giving this sort of news, of voicing regrets. "I'm sorry, Agent Barton. He was killed in action."

"He died a hero," Thor adds, "a warrior's death, and he will be welcome in Valhalla, if he so wishes." Thor's voice is also steady, another who carries the weight of war on his shoulders. It doesn't help. All the calm words and steady voices and warm hands resting gently on his arms are not going to take it away, are not going to make it not real, make Phil not dead. He knows that. Clint knows he never gets to keep the good things, the things he wants, the things he loves. It was his fault.

"No!" Stark says, and Clint realizes he's said something out loud. "It's not your fault. We're not soldiers, we're not -"

"He was." Clint cuts off whatever Stark was going to say. "Phil was a soldier and -"

"And he walked in knowing what could happen," Natasha says. "Don't minimize his sacrifice by suggesting he didn't."

"I'm sorry..." Stark's voice trails off as Natasha stalks away.

Clint wants to reach towards her, wants to say, 'wait for me,' but she's already gone.

Stark looks awkward for all of a second before shaking it off. "Look," he says. "My place is only a block away. Let's get some sleep and we can worry about the rest tomorrow."

Clint texts Nat. _Bed 4 U @ Stark Tower._ Her reply says, _I'll be there._

Clint doesn't have anything with him except the clothes on his back and his bow. No flogger to present her with, no collar to wear, just everything in him that now belongs solely to her. He goes to the room Tony indicates is hers and strips. He has a shower, gets himself clean, then kneels on the soft rug in the middle of the room. He clasps his hands behind his back and keeps his eyes trained on the floor in front of his knees and he waits.

And waits.

He sinks into something like meditation, the control he has to keep on his body letting his mind go blank. It's possible he dozed. But he's alert, eyes on the floor in front of his knees, when the door opens.

He looks up, he can't help himself, and sees her face twist for just a second with grief and anger and more pain then he'd ever seen Natasha Romanova express. Then the door closes with a quiet click.

"Go to bed, Barton," she says as she walks past him to the bathroom. "And not mine."

***

_Phil can do nothing but stare at the red-haired woman kneeling in front of his desk._ Natasha, _his brain helpfully supplies._ This is Natasha Romanova. __

_He'd had women kneel for him before. And men. People who liked a little pain or who liked being guided or who wanted to be treated dirty. Natasha Romanova is different._

_She is broken._

_If he did this, if he made her come apart in his hands, he wasn't sure he'd be able to put her back together._

_He tries to get a read on her, tries to figure out what she wanted, but her head is bowed and her expression obscured by the red curls shadowing her face._

_"Agent Romanova," he begins and she looks up. Her eyes hold a plea, the sort he recognizes, so he doesn't say anymore._

_"Please," she says after a long pause. "I need to -"_

_She stops. Looks down at his feet. But he hears the word anyway. Trust. I need to trust. He threads his hands through her hair and pulls, pleased at the little gasp that elicits._

_"Come on." She starts to stand. "No, on your knees. Hands and knees."_

_He tugs at her hair again, so glad that she'd sought him out in his quarters and that the bedroom was barely five feet from where they now stood. He points to the bed and she positions herself in the middle, those suddenly-expressive eyes never leaving him. "On your front," he says, and she turns with obvious reluctance. It's the work of a minute to find his rope and tie her to the bed, hands gripping the head and legs spread wide. No time for art tonight, he'll worry about that later. Besides, she is art all on her own._

_"Now, Natasha," he says, and it is the first time he's used her first name. A soft whimper escapes her lips before she clamps down on it. "Why don't you tell me what you want?"_

Phil wakes with a gasp, hands clenching as if around a whip or a flogger or a pert ass begging to be grabbed.

"Phil?" A sleepy voice comes from beside him and for one heart-stopping moment he doesn't know who it is. "Another nightmare?" Judy asks, and suddenly it comes back. Judith. Judy. This is Judy, his wife. He has a wife of twenty years. And a daughter, Jill. Sixteen. Son - Paul, just turned thirteen. He lives in Portland, Oregon and is a project manager for an energy company.

This is him. This is his life.

Judy's hand is warm on his chest, covering the large scar that runs close to his heart. "That business in New York," she says, and he remembers. He'd been in the city on business when there was an attack; he'd been injured. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, Judy," he says. "I'm fine." He pats her hand. "Go back to sleep; I'm just going to get some warm milk."

She looks at him with worried eyes - brown eyes, not brilliant blue - but settles back on her pillow. He sits at their kitchen table and sips his warm milk until he's sure she'll be asleep. He doesn't want another conversation with her tonight; he doesn't want to tell her he was dreaming of another woman.

***

Clint hasn't seen Natasha in weeks. She'd been gone the morning after their battle against Loki and by the time he made it back to the helicarrier, she'd been walking out of Hill's office, a new mission folder clenched in her hand.

Clint, on the other hand, has only one mission as far as SHIELD is concerned: prove that every trace of Loki is gone from his mind. He spends his mornings with biologists and physicists and psychiatrists, trying to figure out how he was compromised and make sure there's no chance he'll start killing his colleagues again.

He's restricted to base and spends the afternoons on the firing range, concentrating on the rhythm of draw, breathe, release. It's two months before they give him permission to visit Phil's grave.

Of course, his new handler is there, hovering in the background.

"Can I have some privacy?" he asks. At least it's Sitwell; he'd been Phil's friend, he was grieving too. Sitwell nods and moves away, and Clint hunkers close to the gravestone so he can whisper against the marble. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to resist. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. And I'm sorry I - I let someone else take control of me."

That was guilt he hadn't been able to tell the shrink about, the way he'd betrayed SHIELD was nothing to the way he'd betrayed Phil and Nat, let himself be controlled by someone else, by someone so much _less_ than them. Nat hadn't talked to him, couldn't even look at him, so he couldn't apologize to her, but he could tell Phil. Phil wouldn't hear, would never say it was okay, would never again tell him how to make amends, but it didn't matter. Phil always asked to be debriefed. That was an order Clint could still obey.

"Loki wasn't in control, Phil - not of himself and not of me. He gave me a goal and I achieved it. All the good parts of me, the part that would question why I was doing it, the part that knows what side I'm on, that was gone. But it was still me, that's what I haven't told the shrinks. That was me without a guiding hand and a moral compass; it was me without you. They're right to keep me out of the field, right to not let me off the carrier without someone who can take me down." He rests his cheek against the cold marble. "What am I going to do without you?"

Sitwell stops at a diner for pancakes on their way back and Clint knows he's trying to be like Phil, trying to become his friend. He smiles and talks and remembers how to _act_ normal, all with the hope that it will get him a good report. He needs to get back in the field. His new motto is going to be 'what would Phil do?' and it will not steer him wrong as he tries to make amends.

***

_"I like you tied up," Phil says to the blond man on his bed. "This and sniping - the only times you stay still."_

_Clint, he remembers. This is Clint, who is sitting with his back against the headboard, rope circling his arms and binding him to the wrought iron indulgence Phil had had commissioned. Clint, who is wriggling in place now, a cocky grin showing just what he thought of someone who thought he would stay still. Phil gives the rope attaching his left leg to the base of the bed another tug, pulling it tighter, and the grin wavers for a second as pleasure fights to take its place._

_"Are you going to do something with me now that you have me? Sir? Because I can tell you're getting excited; I can see how hard your cock is from here, how hard just tying me up gets -"_

_"Do you ever shut up? God, maybe I should gag you."_

_"You could gag me with your cock." There's a hopeful lilt to Clint's voice, but it's not want Phil wants at all._

_"When have I ever been in the business of giving you what you want?" he asks._

_"You always give me what I need, Sir. It's far more important." And there's truth in Clint's voice and his face and Phil clambers over him and kisses him with more force than he should, more emotion than he wants to show._

_"Well, tonight it's about what I need," he says when he can pull himself away, "and I need this cock in my ass." Clint groans, and then whimpers when Phil climbs off the bed to strip the last of his clothes. He straddles Clint's hips and presses their cocks together. "Silly me, I've tied you up. Guess I'll just have to prepare myself."_

_Clint looks close to agony as Phil coats his fingers with lube and presses them into his ass._

_"Please, I want to do it. You could untie me. I could finger you and lick your ass and open you right up._ Please _, sir." Clint is struggling against the bonds. "Fuck, how did you get so good at tying people up? You shouldn't be allowed to use your SHIELD training on me in the bedroom."_

_"Clint," he says and Clint quiets. "Just watch."_

_Clint's cock twitches, pre-come oozing from its slit, and Phil presses another finger inside. He hasn't had a boy to use in a long time, but he forces himself to slow down; Clint Barton is someone he likes to torture._

_"I think a third finger, don't you?" His heels press into the mattress as he pushes his hips up. His eyes drift shut as the third finger slides inside him but he doesn't need to see to know how much Clint_ wants _; the strangled whine says it all._

_"Please, please, please," Clint says and Phil moves his hand in time with each whispered plea. He can feel Clint's thighs tensing and relaxing as he thrusts up into the air and knows it's time. He takes a moment to slide a condom and some more lubricant over Clint - perfunctory and efficient, not enough pressure to offer Clint relief - then straddles Clint's hips and pauses, looking down._

_Clint lifts his hips as much as he's able and Phil lowers to meet him, lets Clint's cock rub against his hole. He wants to tease, wants to draw this out, but he wants his ass full more, so he tilts his hips and slides down, seating himself in one smooth move. His control slips for a moment, a hiss turning into a gasp and Clint's eyes light with amusement, with happiness, at the sight._

_His hips rock up and Phil pinches his thigh. "You're not allowed to move, Clint. You're not allowed to move and you're not allowed to come. You're just here for me to use. Do you understand?" Clint nods, eyes wide and pupils blown. "Tell me you understand."_

_"I understand, Sir."_

_"Good." With that, Phil begins to rock his hips._

Phil wakes with his cock hard, thankful that Judy is still softly snoring beside him. He carefully stands and walks to the bathroom. He feels like a teenage boy when he wraps his hand around his erection and begins to jerk off. It's less than a minute before he's spilling, aiming into the toilet bowl so he can flush the evidence away.

***

It's Captain America who finally gets Clint off the helicarrier. Clint's sent to Fury's office and arrives in time to hear the tail end of an argument.

"If you want my people taking care of this problem, then we'll be doing it with our entire team. We need a sniper and I want Clint to be the one taking care of my six; he's done it before."

"Agent Barton has not been cleared for active duty."

"Then I suggest you clear him."

Clint can't stop the smirk that curves his lips at Captain America telling off Nick Fury. And it is a scolding, no matter how calm Cap sounds; he has a 'listen to your elders' and 'I'm very disappointed in you' thing going with his voice and Clint wishes he could tell him it won't work on the Director.

"Are you really telling me you'd leave New York to Doctor Doom's mercy?"

"The Fantastic Four haven't had a run in a while; they could probably use the work out."

"This is extortion."

"Director, I have a responsibility to my team to keep them as safe as possible and that means going into this fight at full strength. Agent Sitwell and Pepper both explained occupational health and safety regulations to me, and I have a duty of care. It was in the SHIELD team leader's handbook."

"Fine! Barton, get in here."

Clint smiles at the memory of the team leader's handbook. He and Nat had had a lot of suggestions for Phil about what sort of advice would be the most useful. A lot of it involved leather floggers. Then he remembers that Nat is as gone as Phil and the smile is gone when he pushes open the door.

"Suit up," Fury tells him and Clint just nods and follows Captain America from the room.

In Manhattan he concentrates on the feel of the string, taut under his fingers, the calming exhale as he steadies his aim, the hiss of the arrow as he releases and the thwack as it hits its mark.

He spots a sniper on the next building aiming at the Cap and the guy is good, covered well. There's no way Clint can hit him from this angle, but he's higher than the guy... four feet from the edge of the building and it would be perfect. He doesn't even consider what Phil would do, knows full well that Phil would take a bullet - or a spear - for his team, so he leaps. The arrow goes through the guy's hand and the shot goes wide. The pavement is coming up fast; saving Captain America's life, that's a good way to go. A green hand appears from nowhere and grabs him around the waist.

"Thanks, big guy," he says, and it doesn't matter that it doesn't sound sincere. Hulk can't tell the difference.

"Hawkeye, report," Cap says over the comm.

"Took out a sniper. I'll head back to the roof."

"No need, I think we're done."

They gather where he is and a metal hand claps on his back. "Sorry it took so long for us to break you out, Legolas. But there's an apartment back at the Tower for you, if you want it."

The Black Widow is there and Clint searches her eyes hopefully for any sign of Natasha. Her eyes soften for a moment and her fingers twitch, as if she wants to beckon him closer. But when he smiles tentatively she turns, talking to Rogers briefly before walking away.

"No," he tells Stark. "No, I'm good on the helicarrier."

Back on board he breaks into Phil's old quarters, surprised to find them exactly as he left them. He lets his fingers trace the collections of the old heroes, comics of the Cap, a poster of Namor, a small figurine of the original Torch. He breathes in the scent of Natasha, still faint on the old t-shirt of Phil's that she often slept in. Finally he curls up in the middle of their big bed as he so often had before and tries to feel their arms still around him.

***

Paul's a fan of the Avengers, who saved New York even though they couldn't save his dad from being hurt. Hawkeye's his favorite, and it makes Phil smile, reminds him of his own childhood obsession with Captain America, and his vintage card set. He'd lost them in New York; he still couldn't remember why he'd taken them with him and it was a huge loss. With Captain America reappearing the price of the collector's items had shot up - he'll never manage to replace them.

He indulges Paul's obsession, even when Paul hides it from his friends because he's too old for that sort of thing. He buys the new card sets, and the Hawkeye t-shirt (Jill got a Black Widow one, because "girls can kick ass too"), and if he slides the Captain America cards into his own sock drawer, well, no one has to know he's still a bit of a geek.

He buys Paul a nerf bow that they marketed with Hawkeye's image on the box, blue eyes piercing out from behind a mask, and Paul practices with it non-stop before begging for real archery lessons. He pops out from behind doors and the kitchen counter shooting at his sister and mother and generally being a nuisance.

"Why did you have to buy him that?" Judy asks, not for the first time.

"It's a good hobby. And it's not hurting anyone. Not even with a real one." They're standing at the side of an oval, targets set up in the middle as a line of teenagers learn about stance and nocking the arrow and aim.

"He's going to think he can be a hero."

"And why can't he be?" He squeezes her hand, knowing it's nerves talking, fear for her son that is leftover from the fear she had for her husband in New York not so long ago.

Then there's a hiss and movement at the edge of his vision, and Phil pulls Judy behind him even as his hand whips up to stop whatever is heading towards them. It happens so quickly that he barely realizes he's moved until his hand is turning, opening, revealing the shaft of an arrow lying across his palm.

Paul is running towards him, followed by the instructor and the rest of the kids. One small, skinny girl is looking at him, horrified.

"Wow, Dad! I didn't think anyone was that fast."

They aren't, of course. His heart's thudding against his scar and he wonders how he doesn't faint from the rush of adrenalin. "I played baseball as a kid," he says, though he hadn't. He doesn't even know why he'd said that, but he doesn't know the truth of why he can catch an arrow and he thinks that if he did he wouldn't be able to tell it.

Still, when the arrow had been moving towards him, when it was his instincts guiding him to protect himself and his wife, he'd felt alive in a way he hadn't since he'd returned from New York.

"I'm so sorry, Sir." The little girl approaches him, bow in hand, eyes on her feet.

"It's okay," he replies. "No harm done."

There's a part of him that wants to thank her.

That night he reaches across to Judy, strokes a hand across her waist.

"Not tonight," she murmurs. "It's been a long day."

He wants to tell her to kneel, hold her wrists in one hand and watch her eyes burn with lust as she struggles against them. But that isn't Judy. Instead he closes his eyes. He dreams he's standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier and that he can reach out and touch the clouds as it flies through the skies.

***

Despite being off the restricted list, Clint doesn't leave the helicarrier. He's cleared for duty again and does what Natasha had been doing - volunteers. But he does it the way Phil would have. His attack on the carrier had taken out a lot of good agents, the ones who did the day-to-day work, and Clint pulls double shifts on the bridge to make up for it, takes watch duty at night so the other guys can get a rest.

No one questions it; no one stops him.

He's been four weeks without a day off when Clint finds himself called to the Principal's office again. This time Stark is waiting for him, no Iron Man suit, just crumpled Armani.

"Agent Barton, here is a forty eight hour pass. I do not want to see you back on base before 0900 Monday."

"Sir, I'm on duty -"

"It is being covered. When you return we will be having a discussion about appropriate breaks to ensure optimal efficiency. If you're very lucky I'll have Captain Rogers give you the OH&S lecture."

"Sir -"

"Barton, get the fuck off my ship. Mr. Stark, if you wouldn't mind giving Agent Barton a lift?"

"Of course not. Do you need to grab anything, Robin Hood?" Stark asks as they walk down the passage.

"Yeah, I need to pack. Why don't you go and I'll get a lift on the leave transport."

"It's cool. I'll even walk you down to your quarters; see what's keeping you here instead of taking up my very attractive offer of a personal apartment." Clint gives him a look and Stark leans back, hands up in supplication. "Woah, you really have that agent-not-amused look down, don't you?"

They're outside of Phil's quarters - Clint's now - and he turns to Stark. "Wait here." There's an undercover bag always packed and ready to go, and it's easy to grab: civilian clothes, three separate IDs and an assortment of weapons. He snags his bow and quiver on his way out the door. "Let's go."

Stark's fiddling with the comms unit by the side of the door and Clint grabs him and drags him away.

"You know, now that you're being let out, we can go out on the town tonight. I think there'll be alcohol involved, yeah? Do you want there to be alcohol involved?"

Clint wants nothing more than to get completely plastered and spend the next forty eight hours in oblivion, but it's not part of his plan. He'd seen what alcohol could do to a man; he wasn't about to give in to that temptation now.

"No alcohol."

Stark pouts. He honest-to-God pouts, like some five-year-old told he can't have candy. "You're supposed to be the fun one, Barton. You grew up in a circus... you should be up for anything. Do they suck the humor out of you when you join SHIELD or something?"

Clint grabs Stark and presses him up against the nearest door, the one that went outside to the carrier deck. "How'd you find that out? That's classified."

"Nothing's classified to me."

Clint's fingers were around Stark's throat, pressing tight. "Some things are meant to be private, Stark. They're classified for a reason. How about you keep your nose out of other people's business?"

"Wow, they do surgically remove your senses of humor. Coulson was exactly the -"

Stark makes a satisfying thud when he hits the floor. Clint leaves him there and takes the Stark helicopter back to New York City. Stark would enjoy a ride on the leave transport.

It's stupid to spend forty eight hours torturing himself with memories of the things he's lost. He can hear Phil in the back of his mind telling him that he doesn't deserve it, even as he eats pancakes in the diner Natasha always made them go to for debriefs. He stands on the bridge in Central Park that had served as a meeting spot for six months when he was deep undercover. He would jog over it every morning and drop a water bottle in the bin. Clint or Natasha would always be waiting, a faint smile in their eyes before they fished the bottle and the microchip of information hidden in the lid from the bin.

His kit has enough cash to get a nice room for the night and he goes to the place Clint and Natasha had taken him after that op had finished. That was the night Natasha had sent him to get cleaned off, then climbed in the shower after him.

"I know what you need," she'd murmured. " _We_ know." Her fingers had tightened around his half-hard cock and began to stroke him and he looked up to find Coulson standing in the doorway watching, jacket and tie off and eyes amused and aroused.

"Leave Agent Barton alone, Natasha." She'd immediately dropped her hands and Coulson had held up a towel. "Go wait for us in the other room."

Clint had never seen Natasha act so demurely, but she let Coulson wrap the towel around her and padded gracefully through the door.

"I apologize for her. She gets... enthusiastic."

"I don't mind," Clint had said, grabbing the towel Coulson was holding out.

"You need to understand that Natasha and I are a package deal."

Clint had stepped up to Coulson, getting in his space, skin still wet and warm from the shower. "I don't mind that either."

Coulson had threaded a hand through his hair and then pulled, exposing Clint's throat. "You also need to understand that you will obey me in the bedroom the same way you obey me in an op."

Clint's eyes had widened as he felt lust shoot through him. How the hell had Coulson known? His body slid over Coulson's as he slowly sank to his knees. It didn't matter how Coulson knew, it only mattered that he wanted this desperately. He clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his head to look up into Coulson's eyes.

"Just so you know, Sir, I'm about as obedient as a sub as I am on an op."

Coulson had laughed then, his hand gentling and he ruffled Clint's hair. Clint had grinned, the familiar pleasure at pleasing a Dom making him feel lighter than he had since he joined SHIELD.

"I was counting on that, Clint," Coulson had said. He'd turned and walked out of the bathroom and Clint had crawled along behind him.

***

_"You need to do something about Barton," Natasha says. She's laying on her back staring at the ceiling and part of him wishes she were the sort who cuddled._

_She's right, of course. But he's not sure_ what _to do, so he stalls for time. "Why do you say that?"_

_She shoots him a look that's all 'are you kidding me?' but still answers. "He looks strung out. He's not getting enough sleep, taking stupid risks. He hasn't even been jogging the last couple of times he made a drop, just stumbling past as if he's still on last night's bender."_

_"He's undercover in a drug operation whose profits go to terrorist organizations. That's how he's supposed to look."_

_"It's more than that. He needs guidance."_

_His head turns quickly at that, at the emphasis she puts on the word guidance. "You think he needs this?"_

_"I do. There's something in his eyes when he says, 'Sir'. I may not understand emotion, but I've been taught to read it expertly."_

_He trusts her judgment - had trusted_ her _since the second time she'd knelt at his feet. The first time there had been doubt, paranoia that she was playing him - and expertly at that - but the way her eyes clouded over and she whined so needily... Phil was an expert at reading people as well, and he knew she was sincere._

_He decides to avoid talk of emotions, of the red in her ledger that he was sure she'd mentally adjusted as soon as she sought help for Agent Barton. Instead he says, "Do you want a pet to play with?" He knows she switches and thinks he'd like to order her to torture the cocky Hawkeye._

_"Maybe," she says, sounding coy and playful and like someone he wants to turn over and spank._

Phil wakes gently for once, no sharp intake of breath, no hard-on desperate for attention. Just his mind thinking, 'Huh. So that's how Clint got involved.' It's only a heartbeat before he remembers that Clint and Natasha aren't real; that this is all some strange, involved dream. That thought is enough to wake him properly, his heart sinking and something inside him protesting the idea. He quietly climbs out of bed and moves to the kitchen; warming milk in the microwave and adding drinking chocolate to it is becoming far too familiar.

He sits on the couch and flips on the sports channel. It's three in the morning and some strange game from Australia is playing.

He wishes that he could still see their faces after he woke, but there's only the impression of red curls and blond hair mussed with sleep and blue, blue eyes looking at him with utter trust.

He nods off, half a mug of warm chocolate still clasped in his hand.

_His pets are on the bed looking at him. Natasha's eyes are guarded, Clint's expectant, but both hold a hint of worry. He'd taken a bullet to the shoulder today and his arm was in a sling. He didn't think either of them liked the reminder that he was mortal._

_It was not long since Clint had joined them, and he wished they'd been together longer, that they'd been stronger, when faced with this particular challenge._

_"Come here," he says and they both move quickly to where he stands. "Kneel."_

_They're both graceful, despite the fight today, and he feels every one of his years as he shifts to ease the ache in his back._

_Natasha's knees are maybe an inch from his toes and she holds her back erect, even as her head is bowed and her hands are clasped neatly behind her back. Clint, on the other hand, is leaning against his leg, puppy eyes staring up at him and looking for comfort. It melts something in his heart, both of them, Clint so eager to please, Natasha always half-worried she is not._

_But tonight is not a night he can stay on his feet. "I'm going to sit down," he says, and they both leap to their feet to help. He should tell them off, but he cannot reprimand them for the care they show him._

_"We could sit at your feet," Clint says. "You could read us a story." He bats his eyelashes and Phil doesn't bother to hide his chuckle._

_"No, I don't think I'll do any work tonight. Natasha, you know what I like. Show me something interesting._ Impress _me."_

_Her eyes fix on Clint with intent and Clint seems a little worried. This is the first time he's given Natasha free reign, but they've talked limits and safewords and Phil trusts her._

_"Shall I get on the bed?" Clint asks and Natasha shakes her head._

_"We want Sir to be able to see." She blindfolds Clint and pushes him to the floor. The_ shing _of the knife leaving her ankle sheath is heard by all three of them and he sees Clint tense. They'd talked about it, Clint and Natasha liking the idea of a knife but Phil a little more wary. Natasha looks at him, making sure it's okay and he nods. Clint's cock is hard and he can already see pre-come gathering at its tip._

_"What's your safeword, Clint?" he asks, a subtle 'is this okay?' in the question._

_"Captain America," Clint replies with a huffed laugh and Phil regrets yet again that he said Clint could pick whatever he wanted._

_With that part of the ritual over Natasha places the flat of the blade to Clint's pectoral muscle._

_"No blood," Phil reminds her quickly and she nods. It's an embarrassment that he can't handle the sight of it if he's not in the middle of a work crisis._

_Clint's breath is shallow and his torso arches, clearly seeking more, but Natasha seems to think better of it. "Stay," she says before standing, leaving the knife where it is. She returns from the other room with one of his arrows and Phil approves._

_The knife hits the bedpost with a thud and Phil can tell by the way Clint's hands claw at the carpet that he is desperate to know what's going on._

_She starts with the nock, dragging it lightly over Clint's nipple. Clint smiles, even as he arches and bites his lip._

_"You'd use my own arrow against me?"_

_Natasha doesn't answer, just tilts the shaft so the fletching is dragging along Clint's skin. It's traditionally made - real feathers - and Clint's abs twitch under the touch. Phil relaxes back into his seat and watches Natasha torture Clint with light caresses and gentle kisses. Clint's never been the most patient of men when he's not in a sniper's nest and he whines and bucks and pleads so prettily._

_The fletching is dragged up the hard, red cock and as Phil watches, Natasha reverses her grip. She flashes him a cheeky smile before dragging the sharp tip of the arrowhead down Clint's length._

_Clint freezes. "Fuck," he breathes out and Phil can tell he is struggling not to move until the steel leaves his skin. As soon as the arrowhead is on his thigh, Clint arches, a low whine escaping his throat. "Please, Natasha._ Please. _"_

_Phil manages to get his trousers undone with one hand and it's a relief when his cock springs free of its restraint. Natasha traces Clint's balls next and Phil can't believe how hot it is watching Clint get taken apart like this._

_Natasha traces her way up Clint's chest and leans close to whisper in his ear. Phil doesn't know what she says, but she takes the blindfold off and Clint looks straight at him, straight at the hand that's working his cock._

_"I guess you've impressed him," Clint says._

_"I guess I have."_

_"You'd impress me more if you fucked him," Phil says, frustration seeping out just a little._

_"Yes, Sir." She slides a condom onto Clint and picks the arrow up again, keeping the tip moving as she rides him. Clint grabs her hand, holds the arrowhead still, pushing it down until Phil's sure it's going to break skin._

_"Please, Sir. Please. I need to- need -"_

_Phil watches them both for a moment. Natasha is grinding down, the nails on her free hand digging in to Clint's shoulder. Clint's eyes are on Phil, desperate. Pleading. "Come. Both of you. Now."_

_Both of them tighten, arch. The shaft of the arrow snaps under their hands. And Phil's coming too, the first pulse hitting his sling before he coats his hand and pants. Then he looks and there's blood on Clint's hand and he has to look away._

_"What happened?"_

_"Splinters." Clint's laughing. "Nothing to worry about."_

_"Climb into bed, Sir. I'll be there in a second to clean you up."_

_For the first time both his pets stay the night. Phil's hand is tangled in Natasha's hair and Clint is between them, tight against Phil's uninjured side._

Phil wakes to the sound of Jill pounding down the stairs. He grabs a pillow and pulls it across his lap just in time.

"Dad? What are you doing up so early?"

"Morning love. I couldn't sleep. Go get some breakfast; I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay."

Once she was out of the room he looked down at the mess of his lap. He could feel his cheeks heat as he acknowledged to himself that it wasn't just spilled chocolate milk.

***

"Sir, one last thing."

Clint pauses at the sound of Hill's voice. Fury's comes seconds after.

"What is it, Agent Hill?"

"The hidden asset."

Clint knew he should move, especially after he'd told Tony off not two days ago about snooping, but a 'hidden asset'? This could be useful.

"I thought I'd told you we were through having those conversations?"

"I didn't believe you, Sir."

"He is staying hidden."

"Sir-"

"Hill, he woke up with no memory. Woke up believing that his cover was the truth. What do you want me to do?"

"He could have been kept here while he recovered his memory."

"If Phil Coulson wants to live out the rest of his life with a cellist in Portland, who am I to argue with him. He's served his country well. He deserves this."

Clint's frozen to the spot. Phil's alive. He has no memory, but he's alive.

"Sir, he's going to realize his children aren't aging at some stage."

"He may recover his memories before that. If not..." Fury sighs, a sound more weary than Clint had ever heard from him. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Their footsteps fade away and Clint turns and runs in the opposite direction. His mission bag is still packed and stealing a helicopter is nothing considering they're so understaffed. Besides, there's no chance Fury didn't know he was there.

He lands on the roof of Stark Tower and is greeted by Tony Stark himself.

"Just the man I need to see," he tells Stark. "I need you to break into SHIELD files for me."

"What? No can do, Katniss." His tone turns condescending. "Some secrets are meant to stay secrets."

Clint pulls his service revolver and points it at Stark's temple. "Do it."

"Barton, have you gone insane?"

"Possibly, so I'd suggest you placate me. You're looking for information about an asset in Portland. Use of LMDs approved."

Stark's fingers are flying over the screen even as he keeps a wary eye on Clint. Then his focus is completely on the screen. "Hey!"

There's a sound behind him and Clint pulls the other gun and aims it at Natasha's head. "Easy, Clint. Stark, get out of here."

Stark starts to move. "You do anything about the information you just saw, I'll end you. I've got it."

Something in his eyes is obviously deadly, because there's no smart-arse comment, just a quiet nod. Stark leaves quickly and as soon as it's just him and Nat, he drops his weapons; thankfully she does as well.

"Clint, what-"

"I'm sorry," he says quickly. If this is the only opportunity he's going to get to talk to her, he's going to say his piece. "I should never have done what Loki asked. Shouldn't have followed his orders when I was yours and - and Phil's." His throat closes over, but then he reminds himself that Phil is alive. Somewhere out there he's alive.

"Clint, I told you. That was magic and monsters and not your fault. Not at all."

"But you - you stopped speaking to me. I haven't even seen you."

There is something in her eyes that reminds him that she doesn't truly believe love is for children. Something raw and anguished and with it a desperation that he remembered from when she knelt next to him at Phil's knee.

"I can't do it without him, Clint. I don't know - I know the actions, the motions, but the emotions? Making sure you're cared for and getting what you need? That was Phil and how can -" She stops and there are tears on her face. Natasha Romanova is crying. "I can't even look after myself; how can I look after you?"

Clint crosses the room in two steps and falls to his knees. He rests his forehead on her thigh and wraps both arms around her legs. "I don't need any of that, Nat. I just need you." He keeps hold of her as she sinks to the ground and they stay tangled up, both finally grieving for the man they'd lost.

When they're quiet again he suddenly remembers why he's here in the first place. "Nat. Coulson's still alive."

***

"Do you ever think that you're meant to be somewhere else? Meant to be some _one_ else?"

Judy looks at Phil as if he's mad, and maybe he is. They've been together twenty years, their kids are teenagers. "You haven't been yourself since New York. Maybe you should go talk to someone. A counselor. A psychologist."

"I don't need a shrink," he says, though maybe he does. He's been married twenty years; Clint and Natasha don't exist. Wife: Judy; children: Jill and Paul, sixteen and thirteen; job: project manager. This is Phil, this is his life. He's been telling himself that too often lately.

He doesn't remember the last time he made love to his wife. Maybe that's why all his dreams center around a couple of fit, good-looking people. _Who like to be tied up,_ his brain reminds him, and yes, that's the important bit. They like to put themselves in Phil's hands and let him take control. If a shrink was going to tell him anything, it would be that he has felt out of control since that piece of building shot through his back and nicked his heart. That his dreams are about wanting to feel in control again.

He could figure it out on his own, no psychologist required.

"I'm going to bed," he says, standing up from the couch. He kisses Judy on the cheek, quick and chaste.

"It's only eight o'clock."

"I haven't been sleeping well. I'm feeling tired."

Her eyes are worried again - brown eyes, not blue and he looks away because the color is all wrong. Pokes his head in on the kids, ruffling Paul's hair and kissing Jill's forehead, all the nighttime rituals in the Coulson household. Coulson. Son of Coul. He smiles at that, wondering who the first Coul must have been, if he was as proud of his son as Phil was of Paul. He tries to remember his own father, but the memories are hazy, tries to remember Paul's birth and Jill's and that first proud flush of fatherhood, but those memories are blank as well.

He stretches out in bed, ready to let sleep take him. He likes his dreams more than his reality.

_He stands on the bridge of a ship – a helicarrier – a phone held to his ear._

_"Barton's been compromised." He keeps his voice cool and calm, not giving any hint to the worry churning his stomach._

_There's an almost imperceptible pause before Natasha says, "Let me put you on hold." Anyone else would have missed it._

_Phil stares at the ceiling as the sounds of Natasha beating the crap out of people comes through the phone. The ceiling won't be able to read any worry in his eyes. Worry? Who's he kidding? It's been outright terror since the moment he saw the footage: Loki's spear touching Clint's chest, Clint's eyes glazing over before he shot Nick Fury. Clint was Phil's asset, his pet, his responsibility; this was not supposed to happen._

_"Where's Barton now?" Natasha is saying._

_"We don't know."_

_"But he's alive?"_

_Phil nods as he answers, because any scenario where Clint is dead cannot be borne. There's no reason for Loki to kill a resource - he's told himself that twenty times an hour since the base sank below the sand. Then instead of telling Natasha to come home so he can see she's safe, he sends her to India to recruit a monster. Maybe it was time to take up prayer._

***

Clint and Natasha spot the tail before they spot Phil.

"He must be new," Clint murmurs.

"Beside the point," Natasha replies. "He should not be sent into the field without adequate training."

"He was probably hired as an analyst, not a field agent. We're a little short-staffed at the moment."

Natasha's hand is warm on his arm and for a brief moment the knot in his chest loosens. Then she's moving and they follow the hapless agent straight to suburban Portland where there's a house with a white-picket fence and a navy SUV parked in front. A pretty, middle-aged brunette struggles with a cello case and then Phil is there, helping her carry it in to the house. She smiles up at him and kisses his cheek and Phil smiles, open and honest and without that twist of cynicism and Clint wonders if they should be here at all.

"What if he's happy like this, Nat? What if we're going to go in and ruin his chance for a family and a normal life?"

"Do you really think Phil Coulson could be happy with a normal life? With a lie? They are not his family; they're not even real. He should be with us. He needs us."

Clint isn't convinced and it must show on his face because she growls. "Fine. Bug his place. If he truly seems happy we'll walk away and never look back."

He nods and the next day they're back when everyone is at work or school and the agent has followed Phil to the boring desk job he would have hated. Clint places bugs in the bedroom, bathroom, living room: everywhere there's a chance of conversation. He's hoping they hear something bad, something that says Phil's miserable, and he kind of hates himself for it.

That night Nat stretches him out, holds him still, looks at him like she wants to tear him apart. He wants to bleed, like Phil did. He almost asks, almost begs for it, but then she's sliding on to him and he loses the ability to speak. It's been too long and it's all he can do to keep still like he knows she wants him to.

But it's not what she wants. She flips them so he's on top, digs her heels into his ass and says, "Move, Barton," and he does. He's obviously too slow, because she says, "Faster. _Fuck_ me," and her nails dig into his shoulders and rake down his back and that pain is the most alive he's felt since Natasha pushed Loki out of his head with a well-placed punch to the skull.

They're dozing off when a voice comes from the computer.

"Another nightmare?" the feminine voice says.

"Yeah," Phil replies. Any tiredness leaves Clint in an instant.

"You want to talk about it?"

There's a long silence and Clint wonders if Phil has shaken his head and gone back to sleep. Nat is at the computer, pushing buttons, then the camera feed is up on the screen and they're looking at Phil, flushed with sleep, the LMD he believed was his wife in his arms.

"I think I'm being followed," Phil finally says.

"In your dream?"

"No. In real life. There's a car, the same car. And the same man. And today I glimpsed two people ... I dream of them and today I thought I saw them. Natasha and Clint." Clint flicked his eyes to Natasha, but she was staring at the screen intently. "I thought I saw them today." Phil's voice trails off.

"Is that what you dreamed of tonight?"

"No. I dreamed that it wasn't a bit of building that injured me. That I was stabbed through the back by a giant spear. That this life isn't real and I'm supposed to be somewhere else. Someone else."

"Phil, we've been married -"

"Twenty years. I know. I think I'm going crazy."

"Take tomorrow off. Make an appointment with that trauma counselor the hospital told you about."

"I'm sorry, Judy. I know you didn't sign up for this-"

"Hey. In sickness and in health, Phil Coulson." The LMD kisses him and Clint can't help but cringe.

"You hear that? He's having nightmares. He feels like he should be somewhere else." Natasha sounded triumphant.

"She sounds like she loves him."

"She's programmed to sound that way." She looks back at him. "What's this really about, Clint?"

He can't put it into words, not again. Not after pouring out all his guilt and regrets to Phil's headstone not that long ago. He shrugs instead. "We can go tomorrow."

***

Phil wakes from a dream that was _normal_. It was about meeting Captain America and asking him to sign his cards, and Phil had been having that dream since he was six years old, so when Judy shakes him awake, he doesn't startle, or have any embarrassing erections to deal with. Just a nostalgic smile at the collector's cards he used to own; near-mint, slight foxing around the edges.

"The counselor had a cancellation," Judy says after she's sure he's awake. "He can fit you in at 11.30."

She rattles off the address and he nods absent-mindedly.

"I'll write it down," she says, sounding exasperated.

"Thanks, Judy."

"I just want you to get better." She kisses him on the cheek. "And also get up. I'm heading to the studio."

"Have a good day." He says it automatically, because it is what he's meant to say, but none of it feels real anymore. He just wants to lie in bed and remember the normality of the dream and pretend that he's happy again in this life that's been his for more than forty years.

His bladder forces him from the mattress, but he's deciding to go back to bed until he glances out the window and spots the car. That same car. It's been following him for days. Or has it? It pulls away from the kerb and Phil knows he'll have to go to the counselor; the paranoia has to stop.

He thinks he spots Natasha again as he drives to the appointment. Her image stopped being hazy when he spotted a red-haired woman buying coffee the day before. There was a shadow on a roof as well, and that seemed to solidify Clint's features though he hadn't even been sure there _was_ a person there and not an odd-shaped shrub in someone's roof garden.

Today she's walking down the street in front of the counselor's building, a phone held to her ear. She's not real, he knows that, and confirms it by turning to look again. There's no one there.

But as he walks into the office building he thinks he sees someone else he knows. Agent Childers. He gets into the elevator and knows that a pass card will allow him to hit the button for the 13th floor twice and he'll be taken thirteen levels below the ground to SHIELD's Oregon outpost which he'd helped to establish three years prior. He didn't actually know what SHIELD was, though.

He stops in front of the door to the counselor's office. _Dr. Carter_ is inscribed on a brass plaque. Voices come from the other side.

"I'm telling you, he made me," a soft voice hisses. Phil stops to listen.

"You shouldn't have been so obvious. He's still Phil Coulson. I can't believe you knocked out Agent Carter."

"Shut up, Clint. This was the best way to get access."

Phil pushes the door open and the two of them freeze in front of the leather seats.

"Are you a hallucination?" he asks, taking in every detail of their faces, Clint's blue, blue eyes, the red line of Natasha's lips. "Or am I still dreaming?"

Clint glances at Natasha, eyes wide, but Natasha is stepping forward. "You're awake. We're real." She talks the way one would talk to a scared child. Or someone you were afraid would snap.

"You've been living a dream," Clint said. "But your life isn't real. Not since New York."

"I've been married for twenty years. I have teenage children."

"I'm sorry." Clint really does sound sorry. "It's a lie. You lost your memory when Loki-"

Clint cuts himself off, but it's too late. The mention of his name brings the memories back, all the wisps of the dreams solidifying. Facing Loki, being stabbed. Shooting him, the last act he managed before his death. But he didn't die.

Instead he'd disappeared. Lost himself.

"We only just found out," Natasha says, an apology in her voice.

Now his agents – his pets - were in front of him, and his fantasy was becoming unraveled. Judy, Jill and Paul had been his cover when they were setting up the Portland office. There had even been life model decoys. His children, his wife, all a lie. But he can't mourn because Natasha is here and Clint is here and they're _real_.

"Kneel," he says, and there must be something in his voice - a quiet desperation - because they both obey without question.

Natasha is quiet. Stoic. Staring up at him with those big eyes that are not yet readable. Clint is closer to his feet, close enough to press his forehead against Phil's thigh and lean against his leg.

Phil threads his fingers through Clint's hair and reaches the other hand out to trace Nat's cheek, smiling as her eyes soften. This is what he's been missing.

This is who he is.

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a further disclaimer, Phil's family was inspired by Steve's family in Captain America, Vol. 2.


End file.
